Grace
by FarFarAway314
Summary: The band of misfit heroes settle for the night, and the Grey Warden leaves for her routine scouting. Zevran follows shortly after, of course. He pledged to be her man to the end. However, upon discovering the Warden, he finds a woman who is at the precipice of her strength.
**Disclaimer:** I don't claim ownership of any of the following characters. That privilege belongs to Bioware. Sigh.

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 **GRACE**

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The woman's dark silhouette contrasted the saturated streaks of brash oranges, blushing pinks, and zealous reds of the setting horizon. Standing at the cliff's edge whilst clutching her towering staff, her amber shoulder-length curls rustled upon a passing breeze. She could be declared picturesque and worthy of song by bards. The scene captured the essence of a heroic epic. The Grey Warden, guarding at the threshold from impending doom, leading a small band of wayward misfits, she was the singular hope against the Blight that plagued the nation of Ferelden.

Zevran knew, however, by the mere shivering of her shoulders his view told a differing story. He followed her when she had stepped away to scout alone again while the others prepared the camp. Yet rather than scouting, she sought refuge at the precipice. This was not the first time the mage withdrew from her company. In fact, Zevran noticed whenever their group camped she would excuse herself to search the surrounding area. In the past, the others would argue to join her. Despite, citing the dangers of investigating alone, she would dismiss them. Eventually, one-by-one, they stopped arguing and let her leave. The thought of the Warden wandering alone, especially with her history of attracting trouble, concerned Zevran. He resolved to follow her on her surveys. It surprised him to find she was not scouting at all, rather she would find a quiet place to sit in silence. So he would find a nearby spot to hide and observe, always alert for possible threats. After all, he did swear he was her man until the end that fateful day she spared him after his assassination attempt. Soon, her routine became his, and Zevran began to cherish the time to revel in this secret side of the Warden.

Never had he seen her like this in all his secret watches. Instead of sitting in meditation, her delicate hands gripped at her staff, her shoulders hunched over and shaking just so slightly. Although, her posture would not be enough to cause initial concern to the untrained eye, it was clear to him that she was suffering.

During their travels he and the Warden developed a close friendship, witnessing the silent despair of an individual who seemed unbreakable stirred an anxious feeling within him. In Antiva, it was a typical sight for men and women to numb their agony with pleasure; duplicitous livelihoods were the norm. Yet to behold this woman, who had listened to all the sordid histories of her compatriots, bear her pain with a tragic grace simultaneously broke and unnerved him. Her anguish was not his own, but watching her unburied some of his suppressed memories. Before the thoughts could fully form, he gripped his hands tightly. Nails biting into his skin, while not drawing blood it pained enough to focus his mind elsewhere.

Flippantly, Zevran entertained the thought of interrupting the Warden's solitude with idle flirtatious banter. She would deflect as always with a smile. It would succeed in distracting both parties from their distress.

Zevran frowned, his eyebrows furrowed, hands slackened, and glanced over to the woman. _No,_ he thought, _she is not an Antivan woman_.

Indeed, the Warden was unlike any woman he had ever met. Brought up cloistered in the Circle of Magi, ingrained from youth that she was eternally upon the cusp of destruction, that her magical gifts were a curse. Somehow, she maintained a spirit of compassion and kindness. Despite her circumstances, she was a woman of courage and an unwavering inner compass. No one was beyond her grace, not an Orlesian spy, not an apostate, not a bastard son of a king, not a merciless qunari, not a drunken dwarf, not a cantankerous golem, not a spoiled noblewoman, and not even an assassin like himself. Hers was a motley crew of second chances. Zevran wondered, if secretly, she was hoping for a second chance as well.

He rose to his feet, purposefully rustling the leaves and branches of the bushes surrounding him. With a confident smirk, he emerged out of the forest and walked towards the startled Warden, whose staff was glowing and ready to cast a spell.

"It's you, Zevran," she sighed, the light emanating from the head of her staff dissipated. Her countenance relaxed and with exasperated expression she continued, "I thought you were darkspawn for a moment."

"Do you sense them?" Zevran's hands flew to the hilts of his blades. She shook her head, a hand raised up to ease him, "no, I don't. I am bit on edge it seems." Her hand dropped to her side while she offered an uneasy smile.

An opening, Zevran would not lose it. He smiled as he approached her, drawing closer and closer until he was an arms distance away. He spoke in dulcet tones, "you do seem out of sorts. Something bothering you, perhaps?"

It started slowly. First, a pursing of the lips followed by a wrinkling of her forehead. Then her eyes squinted and lips folded underneath her teeth. Quickly she turned away from him towards the horizon, and Zevran could hear a faint scratching on wood. When he side-stepped around the Warden, he could see the whites of her knuckles as she clenched her staff. Her shoulders trembled, then shook. Her body curled into itself, concluding with a drop to her knees.

Zevran's heart leapt to his throat, knees dropping as he followed her to the ground. His hand fluttered about in the air until it settled upon a heaving shoulder, the other hand eased her staff safely to the ground. He first felt her tears rather than heard them. He froze. _A woman's tears truly paralyze a man,_ he thought. No words of reassurance came to mind. He could beguile any woman, sweet words came naturally to him, but he was utterly befuddled by the art of comforting. So he sat in silence as she wept. Slowly, cautiously, his arms inched their way around her, prompting her to turn and sob into his leather armor. It startled him, a part of him frightened by it, but even more grieved by her tears he tightened his arms around her.

 _My armor is ruined now,_ the idle thought came unbidden but he did not move nor shift the sobbing woman.

The onslaught of tears wracked her body for awhile. Still, Zevran did not release his hold on her. Gradually the cries began to quiet and the stream of tears waned until all that was left were sniffles, snot, and damp cheeks. Her hands curled, opened, and curled again. Although her face was hidden from his view, it seemed she was battling something. She must have reached a conclusion when she tenderly pushed away from his chest.

Zevran couldn't help the snort that escaped him when he saw the mess she was in. Her curly hair ruffled, skin blotchy, and snot trailing down her chin. "You are most ravishing, my dear Warden," he jested, gesturing to her face. A groan and then a short laugh escaped her lips, her hands withdrew into her sleeves of her robe to wipe the tears and snot away.

"Thank you Zevran," she said with a wide smile that didn't reach her eyes, "I'm fine now."

Zevran clicked his tongue, "You should know that Antivan Crows _are_ trained in subterfuge. Unless you were secretly trained as an assassin in your cloister, I don't believe that you speak the truth." Zevran paused, light-heartedness gone, "what's wrong?"

She tried to laugh, it died in her throat. Her lips thinned and eyes narrowed. She glanced to the left, to the right, then down at her knees and fisted her hands in her lap. It disheartened Zevran when she didn't respond but her hesitancy did not surprise him. Assassins were taught to be cold in favor for the kill, his present behavior was contrary to all that he knew. She had always respected his distance from her so he could only respond in kind.

"I understand if you would rather not speak. I'll take my leave." Zevran moved to stand up. When he was halfway standing, she grasped for his arm. "Wait," came the soft plea, "stay."

He immediately obliged her by sitting back down onto the ground. Her grasp loosened but her hands remained on his arm. Sighing, she looked up from the curtain of copper hair with watery eyes.

"In the Circle, it is dangerous to show emotions. An emotional mage is liable to summon a demon. Templars will watch you, waiting for any sign of weakness. If you are determined to be a risk, they will make you Tranquil." She shuddered, "do you know what Tranquils are?"

"I know very little of the world of mages," Zevran answered, "but I've heard of them."

"It's a ritual that removes our connection to the Fade, which is our source of magic. In the process, mages lose capability of feeling and their memories are gone. Afterwards, mages are just a shell of their former selves, and they're utterly dependent upon others to be cared for. I would try to avoid the Tranquils in the library if I could help it. They're," she hesitated, "a terrifying and constant reminder of the reality of a mage."

She sighed heavily, pulling her hands into her lap, nervous fingers picked at one another. "I did not-do not-want to become Tranquil. I decided when I was young that I would never show weakness after seeing a senior apprentice become Tranquil because she was fearful. Any time I felt too much, I would go to a corner in the Chantry and sit. I would listen the sisters pray to the Maker. Meditating on their chants helped bring me peace whenever I was too overwhelmed."

"That's why I leave whenever we camp. I go meditate to—" her voice choked, "to pray, to quiet the voices in my head, to somehow find peace, but I can't. I can't do it anymore." Her hands covered her face, voice muffled as she cried.

"It's so _much_ , Zevran. Everyone is looking to me for answers, for salvation, but I'm just a mage. What can I possibly do? Even though I am a Warden and The Grey Wardens have always been seen as heroes, I don't feel like one. I'm so frightened of myself, Zevran. I'm terrified that I'll make a mistake, that I'll succumb to a demon. I don't understand why the Maker has me here. Elissa is a better leader! She was raised to lead, to make important decisions."

Zevran reflected upon Elissa Cousland, the young noblewoman, and agreed that she was all that nobility aspired for their daughters. Lady Cousland, the epitome of pedigree, bore status, regal features, luscious curves, fair skin, and ebony tresses. A sharp wit, and trained with bow and books, she easily commanded attention and respect but demure when she needed to be.

Yet, with all her refined upbringing, Elissa possessed a streak of recklessness and pride that had caused problems in their travels. Also, while Zevran could not determine if it was deliberate, she regarded herself with an air of superiority in her manner with other races or inferior social classes. Her gestures of generosity and kindness often seemed rehearsed, but he had to credit there were the occasional moments of sincerity. For the most part, there was a calculation—however minor—in all that she did. Perhaps his opinion was colored by his personal dislike of the elite, but Zevran cared little. Rather, he cared more about his weeping friend crumbling before him.

"Elissa _is_ a sexy goddess, and certainly knows how to use to her tongue. Men and women fall at her feet for her charms," At his words, Zevran saw the young woman wilt. "I've seen the likes of her many times over. Killed a few like her, after bedding them of course." That aroused a scoff from her, he smiled when she dropped her hands from her face to look at him incredulously. There was a twinkle to her eye, a crinkle at the corners of her mouth. She was resisting a smile.

Tucking her chin up, his expression solemn, Zevran continued, "Perhaps the Makers sees in you what everyone else can see, a woman who earnestly cares for others. The Lady Cousland may give many favors, but yours are always from your heart. In a time such as this, perhaps what the Maker needed was someone like you. You are a rare breed of a mage. Despite all the animosity you face I have rarely seen you falter in the face of it."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, "I want to believe that." Her words longing, barely above a whisper. "I'm not as righteous as you seem to think I am, Zevran. I'm a terrible person. I'm selfish." She shakes her head. "All that I've done is to keep myself alive. If people like me, then they won't make me tranquil. They'll see me as more than just a mage."

Her body slumps with a heavy sigh, fists clenched. "All magic has ever done is ruin everything. It corrupts, and makes everyone else live in fear. Fear of the blight, fear of demon possession, fear of tranquility, fear of mages, fear of Templars. I hate it! No one sees _me_ , all they see is a demon waiting to ravage.

I could have had a family. I could have been a noble like Elissa, I could've been happy. As soon as Mother discovered I was a _mage_ , she sent me to the Circle first thing. How could what I am be a good thing? Why would the Maker curse me with magic, and then make me a Grey Warden?" She lamented.

"I spent my time contemplating other things than the mind of a distant god," Zevran quipped, attempting to lighten the severe mood, however gazing upon her face a twinge of regret ached in his chest. So he continued with a sigh, grazing the back of his hand down her wet cheeks, "while you are thinking your life is ruined, you have been saving others." A solemn ferocity took hold of his countenance, nameless emotions swelling within him, and beating against his willpower to pour out of him. He swallowed to regain a measure of control before continuing, "you saved your friends in the Circle, who committed treason. Saved a young boy and his mother from the clutches of a demon. You helped the casteless dwarves in Orzammar. Ended a curse while unifying the dalish elves and humans. You somehow find seemingly random, and hopeless people in need of aid, and help them."

"Solona," Zevran entreated, speaking her name tickled his tongue and sent a giddy shiver down his spine. It was the first time he had used it. Even the young woman appeared startled. "We are here because of _you_. Elissa called for my blood, as most would do, yet you, you foolish girl." Zevran chuckled, placing his hands on the sides of her cheeks, his honey gaze peering into the depths of her watery and bloodshot emerald eyes. "You silenced the princess with one look, and offered me freedom from the Crows. I, Zevran Arainai, the assassin contracted to kill you. Sure, I planned to charm you with my good looks and witticism." His eyelids dropped half-way, and grinned mischievously. "Maybe my looks _did_ charm you. You would not be the first."

She snorted and wiped her face vigorously. Although Zevran still spotted the smile she attempted to hide behind her robes. When her hand dropped, any evidence of mirth was gone. She retorted clearly attempting to be firm but betrayed by her sniffling nose, "That wasn't out of some sense of righteousness, and was _not_ so shallow. I planned to interrogate you, and contract you into the Grey Wardens."

Zevran guffaws, Solona pouts. "We needed another blade in our fight against the darkspawn, and now against Loghain Mac Tir. It was a good plan. You couldn't know I was bluffing," she asserted, folding her arms and leaning back. Zevran still laughing, made show of wiping a tear from his eye. Solona sniffed.

"Never change, my dear Warden." He breathed, laughter finally waning.

A sudden chilling wind whirled about the former-assassin and mage, the dusk sky had lost most of its vermillion brilliance. The sun had set beyond the horizon, now followed by the deepening indigo blanket of nightfall.

"Well, I believe that is a sign we should return to camp." With a grunt, Zevran rose to his feet. Then he regarded the still sitting woman with a smirk, "would you like me to join you? It would create delicious stories that we could re-enact, privately of course. Unless you enjoy an audience?" Zevran's smirk widened into a full grin as he ducked a swipe of her staff. Although it was getting darker, he could see that the woman's expression bore only a playful annoyance. If she had meant to harm him, he would have burn marks to prove it. He offered a hand to the young woman, who grasped it, and hauled her onto her feet. The jolting movement bumped their bodies together, in the cooling air the radiating body warmth was palpable. Their gazes transfixed on one another, Zevran's smile faded away.

He wanted to move, yet his feet were firmly rooted. He tried to tear his eyes away, but found himself bound by her strangely hypnotic gaze. Silence strung along in moments, moments that felt like hours and days, until Solona broke it with a hushed murmur, "thank you Zevran."

The earnestness of her gratitude speared his chest, he swallowed furiously, and clenched his jaw. Again, the nameless emotion reared its head. He felt a paralyzing, instinctive dread in the face of it.

The sudden defenseless panicked Zevran, so he responded, "sweet maiden, might I have my gratitude in the form of a kiss?" He leaned in slightly, closed eyes with lips puckered comically. Solona frowned, and then smirked. Quickly she leaned in, pecked his tatooed cheeks. She withdrew from Zevran's grasp before he could react, and walked towards the forest. Just as she reached the outskirts, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. "You coming?"

Zevran was absolutely astounded, the shock apparent by his widened eyes and gaping mouth. His shock gave way to an unsettling mixture of pleasure, joy, and challenge. Turning around, he smirked, "I'll always be at your back."

He then follows her into the forest, and back to camp. Naturally, her comrades had fussed about her lengthy absence, and as Zevran predicted, drew lurid conclusions about Zevran's and Solona's activities. Zevran, of course, seized every to opportunity extrapolate, and the serene Warden only shook her head and rebutted when it went a little too far.

As the party ate their evening meal of game and herbal soup, Zervan marveled how the firelight accentuated the mage's features. While firelight casted Elissa in a fetching glow, his gaze kept wandered back to Solona. In a stolen moment, he regarded her as she conversed with Leliana. A beauty, a compassionate woman, a mage, a human. There were only parts that made up the sum of her being. Many placed labels upon her, a demon, a mage, a hero, a woman, and others. Here, Zevran sat amongst the most diverse collection of people he had ever seen outside of Antiva. Onlookers would name each member by a moniker, but Solona sought beyond.

 _She truly is unlike any other woman._ He anticipated how the future would unfold for her, and how he would play a part in it.


End file.
